


i'm spun out so far

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F, skins-bigbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily and Naomi don’t work out, but then nothing ever seems to. Post season 4. Art by shan_3414 here: http://shan-3414.livejournal.com/55261.html</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm spun out so far

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to immortality and to my sister for the beta work, to keffyrules for the cheerleading and read-thru.

–

 _See your shadow at my window / I feel your spirit in my bed_  
\- “Go Away Lover,” Elizabeth and the Catapult

–

  
by [Julianne’s](http://www.flickr.com/photos/39388249@N07/)

–

“I can’t be here alone,” Emily keens into the phone barely a second after Katie’s picked up, and she doesn’t even say hello.

Emily and Naomi haven’t worked out — Katie knows it just from the sound of her sister’s voice — it’s not  _surprising_  in the long run, not exactly; nothing ever seems to. And despite whatever dreams Katie may or may not have had for her sister, there’s a thing called reality and sometimes it has to set in. Still, Katie knows better than to call her sister a barely functioning idiot, at least at this moment in time.

“Please,” Emily continues, “come stay with me.”

Katie would be a shittier sister than she already is if she said no, really, though she doesn’t hesitate to tell Emily what a sweet situation she’s giving up here, though there’s no way she’s dropping her job. (She has to come back with something, push back against the pain she can feel in Emily’s voice.) Christ, the petrol money alone is making her tear up; thank  _god_  her office is on the north side of Bristol, and even then it’s going to be a bit ridiculous, the amount of time she’s looking to spend in the car (even  _with_ the raise she got at Christmas time, the one that started a small riot in the office, and rumors that she was fucking the boss, a somewhat portly gentleman she wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot anything).

She tells Emily as much, and is relieved (she’ll admit) when Emily actually laughs — just a small noise of amusement — and it’s enough to let Katie know that her sister will be okay in the end, and maybe, they’ll be okay living together again after hardly spending more than a week in each other’s company for years now.

–

James stands in the doorway, watching Katie pack up her wardrobe. She won’t need furniture, so that’s something, she supposes. “I still don’t understand why you’re going,” he says, kicking at the wall, leaving little scuff marks. Katie refuses to care — not her room anymore, yeah? In fact, the little cunt will probably move in before she’s down the driveway.

“Do I need a reason, other than getting the fuck away from the likes of you and your friends?” She punctuates the question by shoving at a pile of bras that James is staring at a bit too keenly. “Pervs.”

“Well,” James continues on as if she hasn’t meant to insult him, as he tends to do. “I think you just want your own space so that you can get properly laid, not have to sneak around and keep quiet.” He’s focused on this vision, whatever ridiculously foul sex act he’s imagining.

Katie shakes her head. “Really, James. I think you need to start watching porn.” Besides, she’s not even  _getting_  her own space, really. It’s only an hour away, it’s not like the little shit can’t come for a visit once in a while.

“Oh, I have.” He perks up. And he wonders why she’s so ready to leave.

–

It’s a nice apartment on a nice street in nice Gloucester, at least, a place that Katie’s seen in passing but generally tried to avoid as she was always just a bit more comfortable staying outside the Apartment of Gay Love (as Cook referred to it once, in passing).

Katie knows the saga like the back of her hand, even the bits Emily didn’t tell her. Some things she just knows, like how Emily is the gayest gay she knows and how it all seemed to sort of click in to place when Naomi finally, fucking finally said it back. The declaration of love, the miserable two years at separate universities until Emily gave in (and they all knew she would) and transferred back. The two exquisite years of quasi-marital bliss — Ems in graduate school and working with neglected children, Naomi finally getting that coveted job on a political campaign (which Katie can’t be bothered to know the details of. Some raging asshole who just happens to represent all that’s good and proper in Naomi’s books, who Naomi’s threatened to quit on several times but always ends up going back, because if she isn’t there to play the angel on his shoulder, then who will?).

And now, after all the bullocks Naomi’s been spreading about forgiveness and love, bottled up for ages, all that’s left is decay. A bizarrely empty apartment full of artifacts that Emily can’t bear to look at. She won’t talk about it, just gives Katie a devastated look when she opens the door and starts crying all over again, so Katie’s left to her own devices to decide if Naomi left on her own, or if she fucked up, fucked off, and Emily actually grew the dick necessary to kick her out. It’s not hard to imagine Naomi, ranting endlessly and her sister’s adoring gaze becoming less so, day after day.

She settles in quickly, lugging more bags than “any human has a right to” (Effy, this time, though they certainly don’t see much of each other these days) because while living with her parents she’s managed to save roughly half of her earnings and spend the other half, gleefully, on work clothes that don’t actually look like they came from the takeaway bin. The first night she spends unpacking her things into the guest room (she doesn’t actually have much, other than her wardrobe) which sports the ugliest duvet she’s ever seen — something she promises will be gone within the week. It’s almost natural, the two of them sitting on the bed, Emily remarking when she pulls out a piece of clothing that’s exceptionally slutty, and acting surprised when most of Katie’s wardrobe is rather conservative. Not that she’s had a choice, Katie explains, would have explained ages ago if Emily’d kept in better touch, because Katie’s boss throws a hissy fit if she’s seen sporting even an inch of cleavage.

They finish up and lie back on Katie’s bed, shoulders almost touching, like they used to, lives ago. “Thanks,” is all Emily says, and Katie doesn’t answer back, just finds her sister’s hand between them, and squeezes.

–

The next morning isn’t as easy, and Katie starts to see the cracks. She’s relieved she’s taken off work ahead of time, because no way would she leave her sister like this. Not that she’s worried about her state of mind — like it or not, Emily generally has a good head on her shoulders, even if she’s a bit daffy at times — but, it’s just… odd to see Emily this out of control, this upset. Katie does what she can (this mostly amounts to botching a fried egg and pouring juice in an attempt at breakfast in bed). She tries to be understanding; after all, Emily’s just been left by the girl she thought she would spend her life with (she explains, sniffling, while poking at Katie’s breakfast) and she’s still, mostly, functioning. Aside from the random crying and largely preferring to cling to a pillow and hide under the covers. Aside from that.

So, Katie puts herself to work. Emily’s obviously not up for the task, so Katie sets herself to girlfriend removal duty — Bag and Burn. It’s something she’s done for maybe four boyfriends in the past, picking and choosing what needs to go and what should definitely stay. (That second category consists mostly of jewelry, though she’ll admit to keeping some trashy lingerie. The stuff’s expensive, right?) She wanders through the apartment taking stock of all that Naomi’s left behind, imprints on her sister’s life, and now that she’s here, her’s too. There are pictures lining the hallway: Naomi smiling; Naomi riding a bike, with Emily there, a bit blurred in the background; Naomi and Emily making faces, probably drunk, into the camera lens, held outstretched; a quiet moment, Naomi sleeping on the couch, the image inexpertly shot but the message simple — love.

Katie asks and Emily roams her bedroom in a funk. “I don’t want them to sit in some dumpster, you know? Like  _trash_. Those are special moments. And,” she takes a breath, “maybe, someday…” she trails off, looking wistful for a moment before Katie smacks the side of her head with a handful of discarded underclothes.

“Don’t be daft, Ems. You can’t go around mooning after something that’s over and done.”

Emily starts crying again at that, mumbling something about how “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” and Katie can’t really bear to keep the conversation going so she ends up taking everything that her sister’s too emotionally stunted to part with and boxes it away, tucking the taped-up cardboard under her bed. She should throw it away, outright, but maybe the years have made her soft. She takes stock of everything she’s saving, telling herself that she’ll want to know if Emily goes requesting something random, that it’s safe. There is a little booklet with pressed flowers — mementos that Emily’s saved for years, and Katie wishes, really, that Emily would tell her where Naomi’s fucked off to so she could track her down and shake some sense into her. “Do you fucking know what you’ve done? What you’re walking away from?”

–

No one gives her a second glance when Katie returns to work a bit sleep deprived but tidy. She’s maybe fifteen minutes late, and someone should give her a lecture about timeliness, really, if she’s going to be at all tempted to wake up that much earlier each morning. Sometimes, she wonders why she doesn’t get a job she feels a bit less ambivalent about, somewhere her fashion sense wouldn’t be utterly wasted, but then something like this happens. She must be proper good at answering phones, really. And why not stick with your strengths?

She’s only doing this, she tells herself, until she finds a real man — some imaginary figure who’s a far bloody cry from the lads she met in community. Freaks, most of them, and the ones who looked halfway decent were either crap in bed or loads weirder than JJ. And she’d thought college had prepared her for anything.

Honestly, she’s just biding her time until she meets a rich bloke who wants to pay for summers in Mallorca and doesn’t want kids and likes the way her tits look, but not so much that he can’t manage to be a gentleman about it. She won’t find him here, not in her office looking all swotted up, but after hours, when she isn’t tending to her sister, she’ll do her best.

The day is full of incoming and outgoing calls, notes in appointment books, and the occasional glance at her watch. She gets a text message from Emily, around noon. _Evening off. Clients dont want to see their caseworker cry_ , but by the time they’re both home from work and class respectively, Emily seems to be in a better mood altogether. “Vodka?” she suggests, attempting a bit of a smile.

–

It’s easy, for awhile. Neither one asks questions or explains more than they need to in the context of kicking off uncomfortable shoes after a long day. They retreat to separate bedrooms and Katie stops worrying, after awhile, if Emily’s sobbing herself to sleep.

It’s actually kind of nice.

–

She certainly doesn’t intend to, but runs into Naomi at the market on one of the nights when Emily is working late on a case, or maybe at the library. Mostly, Katie can’t be bothered about Emily’s whereabouts beyond knowing which nights she’s being tasked to cook or to do the laundry — a process which consists of dumping their dirty clothes, whites, colors, whatever, into the machine and turning on the telly while it all whirls together in the background. Of course, this night, the laundry is still waiting to be done and Katie has a fairly exhaustive list in her hand, not only ingredients for a quality roast (like mum never made) but basics for the next week.

They square off for a moment in the bread and tea aisle, neither yielding or stepping aside exactly, but neither making the effort to pass. Naomi looks different some how. Longer hair, perhaps.

“Katie,” Naomi finally says, nodding, slowly tucking her basket into the crook of her elbow.

“Mm,” Katie replies, barely tipping her head in response, pursing her lips. She pretends to find something truly interesting about the packet of pita bread to her right.

“Didn’t know you were in town.” It’s offered offhandedly, while at the same time Naomi is clearly giving Katie the once-over. She doesn’t appreciate it, being appraised.

“And why would you?” Katie snaps back, all of the emotions of the past week swirling up and striking out. “What makes you think you have any access any more to my sister’s life, you fucking twat?” There are peripheral stares from other shoppers now, which Katie ignores, crossing her arms.

Naomi flinches. “She’s the one who kicked  _me_  out, you know,” Naomi says, shrugging, and it’s such a non-Emily thing to do, and such a largely apathetic reaction, directly in conflict with everything Katie knows about her sister (how she imagined Naomi spouting off and Emily soothing anything that went wrong between them, clinging to whatever thin remnants of relationship they had left) that Katie visibly balks.

It occurs to her in a rush that Emily’s never actually told her what happened — Katie figuring that it was all just too painful to go in to — but here’s Naomi telling her that it is exactly the opposite of anything that Katie imagined. “You mean, because you cheated on her,” Katie suggests, trying not to sound as thrown by this as she feels.

“Unless there’s some woman out there that I’ve no idea I shagged, then no. Dunno what Ems is telling you, but you don’t have the full story. Not at all.”

The words hit home, but Katie still bites out a quick “Fuck you” before stalking off, knocking Naomi’s shoulder with her own.

She almost asks Emily about it, when they’re both home again. She decides she’d rather not know. It’s a possibility, there, in the back of her mind, that she doesn’t want to consider.

–

She dreams about Naomi in some strange manifestation of guilt or longing or something. There’s a word on the tip of her tongue when she wakes up, shoving the covers down because she’s far too warm. They’d been sitting around a table, the three of them, just waiting. Emily got up, made tea. They look alike, Katie and her sister, in her dreams, far more than they do now — Emily’s hair grown out and constantly tucked up, Katie’s getting shorter each time she grows agitated with split ends — and there’s a moment when Katie wonders if perhaps  _she_  was the one making tea in the dream, also there, hovering and watching everything.

And then her stomach growls and she goes to get breakfast, and it doesn’t matter, at all really. It was just a dream.

–

“I’m bringing someone home tonight, yeah? Is that… cool?” Normally, Katie wouldn’t dream of asking permission for a decent shag (decent being: clean sheets, not in a strange place, not up against a wall, not in the backseat — though there are times for all of those alternatives, to be sure) but Emily hasn’t yet asked for any rent, so Katie’s sort of relying on the good will of her heartbroken sister to maintain a place to live. (Course, Ems could always say no, and Katie could always not feel like living with her anymore. There’s that.)

Emily looks a bit disappointed, saying after a moment, “You want me to find somewhere else to be?”

Katie can read her sister better than anyone. “If you want me to stick around for like, sister’s night or whatever, just  _say_  so, all right?” She tucks some breath mints in to her purse, notices Emily’s general lack of response and looks up.

There’s a strange expression waiting for her. “Um, actually.” Emily starts, haltingly. “If you don’t mind, I was…” She shakes her head, as if deciding something. “If you’d rather be here, that’s fine. I’ll see a film or something.”

“If it’s a problem–” Katie starts.

“It’s not,” Emily assures. She smiles, and it looks genuine enough to convince Katie. “It’s not.”

–

Saturday, and Emily’s already up when Katie fumbles out of bed to use the rest room. Her latest conquest left sometime in the dawn hours, saying something about a brunch meeting he had to prepare for. There’s something brewing and the smell of it this early makes Katie nauseous. “Ugh, how are you  _up_  this early?” she asks, clinging to the kitchen door frame.

“You’re up too, aren’t you?” Emily asks without even looking up from her papers. After a moment, she turns, cocks an eyebrow. She checks her phone in a little movement that Katie’s sure she’s not supposed to have caught.

“No,” she growls, shoving off and turning back to her room, “‘m not bloody up. Too fucking early, innit?”

Emily laughs, a bright sound that Katie hasn’t heard much since she moved in. Still, she recognizes it. “I’m going out in a bit, promise not to fuck with my casework?”

Some mangled sound escapes from Katie in agreement, or disagreement, doesn’t really matter. Her bed’s awfully comfortable, but now the sun is pouring in. She lies awake until she hears the key turn in the front door.

–

She wobbles in around two or three in the morning, expecting Emily to have been asleep for ages. The keys jangle loudly in the front lock, and there’s a loud clunk or two as Katie kicks off her (fabulous) red heels. She downs a quick glass of water, her head still reeling. She’s getting too old for this, maybe, she thinks.

As Katie feels her way down the hall to her bedroom, hand brushing against the wall, knocking a frame down (“Oopsie,” she snorts, not feeling bad in the slightest), she stops. There’s a kind of muffled talking coming from Em’s door. She’s wasted, so it doesn’t take much convincing from that little voice on her shoulder to lean heavily on the wood and press her ear to the door.

Not talking. Not talking at all. Tiny little gasps, and thick breathing. And maybe Emily’s alone, reminiscing about old times, or whatever lesbians do when they get themselves off. But then comes a low voice, soothing. “Just wait,” she says, and there’s a feminine tone of approval.

Katie’s lip curls up, and she feels the immediate need to vomit up everything she’s induced tonight. She runs, grips the porcelain, and it all comes up.  _Have some fucking respect for the dead_ , she thinks.

And then later,  _Naomi’s not dead_. It’s the start of a thought, something wavering around the edges of an idea. She’s too wasted to know what.

–

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” comes a voice over her left shoulder, just snarky enough, with a tinge of laughter.

“Naomi,” Katie says, shaking her head as she turns around. She’d found a perfectly ripe tomato, and now has lost it amongst the pile again. “Did it occur to you that I might not be interested in a chat with the girl who broke my sister’s heart?”

Naomi smirks, but it doesn’t hit her eyes. “That’s an interesting take on things. Me breaking her.”

“You’d tell it differently?” Katie gives in and asks, but insists with her body language (turning around to resume the great tomato hunt) that she’s Deeply Uninterested. She imagines that Naomi’s version of things is as colorful and un-coordinated as the rest of her. Useless. Waste of time.

There’s a pause, and then Naomi is beside her, running her fingertips over the fruit. “To someone who was actually willing to listen, yeah. I would.” She snatches up a tomato — one practically staring Katie in the face — and offers it. “Drinks sometime? I promise not to wear something hideous.”

“That’d be a first,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes, but Katie still takes the tomato, frowns. “Sure. Yeah. Why the  _fuck_  not.”

–

Emily’s stirring something at the stove (smells delicious, Katie’s stomach is rumbling) so Katie knows she’s got her. “About the other night,” she starts, next to Emily’s ear as she lifts plates down from the cabinet.

“What about it?” Emily’s head snaps around, quick and acute.

Okay, she hasn’t thought this far. To the actual details of what she’s going to say. “Did you have someone here?”

Emily rolls her eyes and returns to the pot. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific. Day? Time? Why the fuck you care?” Her stirring gets a little more aggressive, punctuating each question. Katie lines up cutlery, a table for two.

“Look, Ems, you can do whatever you want, yeah? It’s your place. I get that.” She’s reminded again that she isn’t paying rent, and has the sudden urge to shut up. “I’m not, like, trying to get in your business.” She is, though. Naturally.

Emily wipes her hand on the front of her jeans. “Katie,” she starts, sighing a little. “I’m a grown woman. You are too. We don’t have to be on each other’s case all the time.” She shrugs. “It might be better if we didn’t… you know. Have this conversation. All right?”

An effective shut down if Katie’s ever seen one, and Emily’s right. They’re grown women, and maybe it’s just a little childish to press the issue. Who Emily’s shagging or not isn’t her business. Katie makes small adjustments to the place settings, resting the feeling of words piling up in her mouth, knowing that she’s going to push this too far, that she can’t really stop herself. “So, being your sister — your fucking  _twin_  means nothing? Yeah?” She’s not sure why she cares so much, except that she’s  _always_  cared this much. What Emily does is a reflection on her. There are reputations, here.

“Not this time, Katie. No.”

They don’t speak during dinner, but after washing up, Emily suggests they should watch a movie. It’s awkward and terrible until the lead (a fit man who Katie’s going to have to look up later) makes an unexpected joke and Katie finds herself laughing, glancing over at her sister. And Emily’s laughing too.

–

She dreams about Naomi and doesn’t put it all together until hours later, when she’s up and at work, her legs crossed neatly under her desk. Suddenly, she’s sweating and the room is far too small. Her words catch on the phone, answering with “How can I sex you?” instead of her prescribed greeting. She turns beet read, and she never, ever, blushes. There’s some fumbling on the line which she mostly recovers from, the vision of blonde hair, sweaty, between her legs a kind of totem that stays with her through the rest of the day, despite her best efforts. It is far more clear than her memories of countless drunken hookups, of headache-filled mornings after.

She dedicates a serious think to the matter over lunch break, popping in her headphones and chewing carefully on hummus and pita. There was a girl, she remembers, frowning, at that party she attended on Emily’s first campus — Get To Know Uni Weekend — a girl she shagged in a dim bathroom. It didn’t count — not even half, because there was loads of MDMA involved and she was dehydrated and sore in too many places the next morning and no decisions you make when that fucked up actually count. She’s never been able to remember a name (probably never got one in the first place), but vaguely recalls deft fingers, thin and long, and the way their lipsticks smeared together. She remembers dark imprints on her hips the next morning, the bruising of fingertips gripping too tight.

It was loads of MDMA, really, and Emily could never know about this (she thought at the time) because the only  _gay_  Fitch was off ditching the very party that Katie had come down for to visit  _her_ , off shagging her girlfriend on some neatly ironed duvet in her dorm room. The whole thing wasn’t Katie’s fault. She had to find entertainment somehow, and turned out entertainment at that moment meant flashing her tits to some girl who would never, ever count.

And it’s such an awkward homage to the first time Emily and Naomi kissed. Katie doesn’t want to think about what that means, or meant then. She shifts, takes another bite, swallows. Ignores (she’s had practice at it) the wetness between her thighs.

–

Emily answers the phone, the land line, which is the only reason Naomi gets past Emily’s screening process. “I’m  _sorry_?” Emily screeches, angry with a hint of sadness or something like it underneath, “You just figured you’d call, and what, ask for my _sister_? I don’t fucking think so!” It’s as angry as Katie’s ever seen her, hair standing on end, fist around the receiver clenched white. There’s a muffled response before Emily slams the phone down on the kitchen table and leaves the room. “You want to talk to her, talk to her. I don’t fucking care.”

Katie hasn’t heard her sister curse this much in ages, but still takes the phone up cautiously. “Naomi, I assume?”

“What,” comes a worn but still cheeky response from the other end of the line, “with that greeting I’d have guessed I was a telemarketer.”

Katie snorts despite her better judgment. “Safe to say she won’t be speaking to me for awhile, thanks to you. Now, give me a good reason why not.”

“You said we could meet up some time. I’m taking you up on that.”

“And run the risk of never speaking to my sister again?” Katie pauses a moment. “When and where, oh Chamber of Secrets?”

“If you’re referring to my vagina, it’s not talking.” Katie can hear the smile in Naomi’s voice, and it’s strange, this knowledge somehow inside of her that Naomi isn’t any kind of threat. “Tomorrow, 8pm, Pitters?”

–

The first thing Katie does upon seeing Naomi at a table for two, two vodka on the rocks in front of her, is say “Please tell me you’ve got a cell number. Emily’ll flip if you call the apartment again — and I don’t care what the story is. You’re not the one living with her. Spare me the trauma.”

Naomi smiles, actually, and pulls out a smart phone. “Constant social media presence for the campaign. Part of my job description.” She pushes one of the vodka’s towards Katie, nodding at it, then at her. “Sit down.”

Katie does, but the words are sticking in her throat. She washes them down with a swallow, but then dives in anyway. “Look. Before we get all  _chummy_  here, I need to tell you.” A beat. “Emily’s seeing someone.”

Naomi looks (disappointingly) unsurpised. She lifts an eyebrow, her mouth sad. “Lenora? Or is it someone new?”

Katie should be embarrassed by the noise that springs out of her throat, something akin to “The  _fuck_ “, but she’s far too confused. “And how would you know about that? They just started–” It dawns on her, suddenly. Incredibly suddenly, and Katie has to sit back, feel the sturdiness of the chair behind her.

“We weren’t… exclusive, all right?” Naomi takes a sip of her own drink, fingering the ring of water left on the table between them. “It… we both agreed, but it was my idea in the beginning. She isn’t wrong about this being my fault.” She shakes her head, just a little, but Katie notices. “You know how stubborn she is. I don’t even think she  _wanted_ to meet anyone, but she did. I didn’t. Maybe a month before we ended things I told her that I didn’t want that any more, that I knew she… was seeing someone in particular… but that I really wanted to be exclusive, just us. Again.”

Katie’s hearing all this, and it’s going in… it just… Why didn’t Emily tell her?  _I swear to god_ , she thinks,  _if you’re telling me lies I will ruin you_. This isn’t the Emily she knows, the one who mooned after Naomi for fucking  _years_  and practically exploded when even an ounce of affection was returned.

She’s been living with a stranger for months.

“And, well,” Naomi continues, “we talked about it, and she wouldn’t choose. So I chose for her.” Her voice comes out defeated, but there’s a lingering defiance to it.

“A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?” Katie asks, her voice sounding strange to her, hoping the words wound Naomi as much as Naomi’s words have wounded her. She clears her throat. “You’re expecting me to believe that not only was Emily getting something on the side, but that she wanted that more than she wanted you.” It’s not a question. Her words catch in her throat, drag themselves out in the open.

Naomi looks away, and that’s the only way Katie knows she’s struck something that still hurts. “I’m surprised Emily didn’t tell you, actually. It wasn’t a secret, her and I, unless it was to her. I tried to explain, at the grocery, remember? And you’d have none of it.” Naomi smiles, a bit absently. “I figured then…” She shakes her head. “Ems is terrified of you, you know. That you’ll judge her.” She takes another sip. Katie starts to think that maybe Naomi got here a bit early, that this isn’t her first drink. “That’s probably why she kept me around for so long, to be honest, even after she’d met Lenora and they’d hit it off so well, better than we’d been in months. I’d…  _passed the test_ , so to speak.”

Katie coughs. “Hardly,” she spits, but with no malice behind it. “You’ve an awful high opinion of yourself if you think I was ever really all that gung ho about you banging my sister.” Of course in a way, she really was. Whenever she thought of her own future, the one with the rich husband and Mallorca, she always pictured Emily and Naomi, laughing over some fucking awful joke and being ridiculous lesbians together. She knew it might not happen, like, consciously… but that didn’t stop the picture from cropping up in her mind.

“I’m going to refuse to dignify that with a response, considering that I’m no  _longer_ banging your sister and here  _we_  are, enjoying a drink.” Naomi’s voice is dry, but there’s a kind of bitterness behind it.

“Yeah, well.” There aren’t really words, after that. It’s almost an acknowledgement of their mutual understanding. A funeral dirge for what is no longer.

They sit in silence for awhile. It isn’t bad.

–

Katie takes two days before confronting Emily about it.

They’re out shopping, together for once, and the thought of Naomi popping up out of nowhere to aide in fruit selection is so strong in the back of Katie’s mind that she just can’t keep pretending that she doesn’t know.

“Cheap butter’s just as good, yeah?” Emily’s asking, holding up two very similar-looking brands, switching her gaze between them like butter’s going to make or break the next months of her life.

“You should have told me, you know.” Katie snaps the closest box out of Emily’s hand and drops it in the carriage.

Emily blinks. “About the butter?”

Katie shoves her sister, just barely. She can’t bring herself to actually do the kind of damage she might have inflicted years ago. “No, you cow. About you. Naomi.”

A frown starts to develop, her hand tightens around the container she’s still holding. “You’ve gone behind my back? You’re talking to her?”

“You never said I shouldn’t. And how else was I supposed to find out about your life? Jesus, Ems. You never fucking talk to me anymore. I tell you  _everything_  — every bad shag, every kiss, for fucks sake, you even hear about the quality eye-fucks. I was tired of waiting for you.”

Emily winces and shakes her head. It’s as much of an admission of guilt as Katie’s going to get.

Still, she’s defensive. She holds out her hands. “So, what. I tell you that I’m non-monogamous so you can judge me? So you can wax on about how the gays have some sort of moral dearth?”

They’re starting to get stares. Katie lowers her voice and tugs her sister into a nearby aisle. Pet food. “Ems, you know I’d never use the word dearth.”

“Jesus, Katie. Fuck you. This isn’t a fucking joke.” Emily stalks away, taking a moment to catch her breath. This is the precise right time for a drink. “This is why I kept my life to myself.”

“And in the process just… let me believe that Naomi broke your heart? All that blathering on about how she left you  _all alone_?” Katie’s sputtering, she know she is. She’s so…  _fucking angry_  and none of it makes sense. “That you  _needed_  me to come here and be with you because of how awful you felt about being abandoned. Emily, I don’t think you understand that I fucking uprooted everything to come here, to sleep in your fucking guest room, under that fucking ugly duvet. I  _care_  about you, obviously.”

It seems to have done the trick. Emily is quiet now. “I never… I never  _said_  any of that. I’m sorry I… I thought it would work. Stupid me. Hoping that she could love me enough to adapt. To change one fucking bit.” Emily rolls her eyes, frowns hard. “I’m sorry I mislead you, or whatever.” She shakes her head, comes back and puts her hand on the carriage handle.

Katie sighs, suddenly very tired. It’s no fun to argue with Emily when things are this serious. She just feels empty, like a part of her that’s always been there is now gone. She realizes, a little tingle of thought, that she’s never getting Emily back. Once secrets start, they don’t stop. Emily doesn’t  _need_  her at all.

“Are you going to tell me about your girlfriend, then?” The only thing she knows about Lenora is the sound she makes when she comes, which is simultaneously too much and too little information.

It doesn’t fix things between them, but it goes a way towards that end when Emily smiles, just a little. “She’s lovely, actually.”

Katie can almost picture her sister sitting across from someone not-Naomi at the breakfast table. Katie can almost believe that Emily’s happy.

–

Katie should be asleep, but instead she’s turned on the little lamp on her bedside table (Emily’s actually, from when they were kids) and has tugged one of the boxes out from under the bed. She opens it and doesn’t rummage through. Just looks at the image on top: Naomi making some secret gesture at the camera, a small grin on her face.

After awhile, she replaces the lid.

–

She doesn’t dream about Naomi this time, not exactly. There’s this feeling, a sense more than anything, that Naomi’s there, in her dream. Watching, maybe, from somewhere far off. (From under the bed, maybe.)

“You’ve been late again,” Katie’s boss says thickly, setting a portfolio into a drawer. Katie’s wearing a slip of a mini skirt, a bright red bra peeking out from her unbuttoned blouse. “You know I had something to tell you, that you needed to be on time.”

Katie shakes her head, unable to get words out. There’s some sort of cotton in her mouth. Her cheeks are swollen.

“I’m meant to tell you about Lenora,” he says, standing up to approach her, smiling, and where his lips split his foul teeth pop into view. “I’m meant to tell you all about her.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to know,” she says in the dream, her voice coming out clear and strong. Not her voice. Naomi’s voice, moving her lips. She buttons up her blouse, Katie does, and steps into darkness.

She frowns at her alarm upon waking up, pads into the bathroom and feels like it’s been ages since she saw her own face in the mirror.

–

She gets a text at work, around noon.  _I swear. Paperwork’ll be the death of me._  and even if she didn’t have Naomi’s number in her phone (on pain of death, practically) she’d know it was her, because Jesus Christ, who else does she know who puts in proper capitalization and punctuation in a fucking text?

 _starting 2 regret ur lifes passion?_  Katie types back, quick, hiding the phone under her desk. She takes a call (“No, Mr. Humphries isn’t available at the moment. Can I take a message, perhaps? Would you prefer his private line?”) and finishes up a fancy little Excel chart she’s been tasked with before the reply comes.

 _No, never that, Katie. Just wishing this assistant had assistants._  It’s probably meant to make her laugh, but Katie simply smiles. She forgets, too easily, that they aren’t supposed to be friends. That they were never friends. She tucks her phone away, looking at it once more, later, and is disappointed to see it’s only a guy she saw a few weeks back, asking her for drinks.

She’s not sure why she’s disappointed, exactly, but before she puts her key in the ignition on the way home, she taps out a message,  _wna meet up?_ , and sends it to Naomi. On hitting send, Katie feels a little thrill run through her, thinks that maybe she should have just said yes to Mark. Maybe that would have been safer.

–

As much as Katie hates to admit it, she’s a creature of habit. What started out as an excuse to find out about her sister’s life changes into once or twice a week texting and meeting for dinner and drinks, and that then changes into every Tuesday at Frank’s — a kind of hole in the wall with incredible (and Katie doesn’t say this often about local dining) fish. Naomi asks once if she wants to go to Pitter’s again, doesn’t sound surprised when the answer is no.

Daphne, the hostess at Frank’s (there isn’t a Frank to be seen), starts getting their drinks ready ahead of time. It’s nice, Katie thinks, telling Naomi the same later, to have a place again. Makes her feel less like a fish out of water away from home.

“I’ve never, like, honestly  _been_  anywhere other than Bristol. I mean, Dad always had the gym to look after and Mum, despite voicing her opinion otherwise, never really seemed to want to go off without him. And when James was born that was another complication. Dragging two kids on holly is one thing, but a third sort of pushes the limits, yeah?” Katie’s got her feet kicked up on the chair across from her and Naomi is doing the same, though without the unabashed casualness that Katie somehow manages to maintain along with her sophistication, even with heels slipped off. They’re catty-corner, picking off each other’s plates.

“Never had that problem, myself.” Naomi hacks off a piece of Katie’s cod with her fork and takes a moment to chew. “Course, my mum’s idea of holiday is a bit different from a weekend in Paris.” She leans back, tipping her chair on two legs. Katie reacts viscerally, jerking upright, holding out her hand, and Naomi just grins. Tips back forwards. “By the time I was, oh, twelve or so, I’d seen all the proper monuments, toured several communes in Iceland, and did part of the Camino de Santiago in _beautiful Espana_  before passing out in the heat and forcing my mother to change her plans.” Her voice switches in and out of an affected traveler’s guide tone, even as Naomi smiles absently at what Katie assumes are good memories.

“That sounds…”

“Awful?” Naomi grins. “Probably the root of my deep longing for world peace. I’m amazed my little brain held onto it all. So much  _learning_.” She says it like a dirty word, and Katie, without realizing she’s doing so, blushes.

–

Katie honestly can’t remember the last time she’s been to a library. College, probably, and even then only when some up-herself teacher pitched a fit, crying about how Wikipedia’s not a real source, blah blah blah. And this time, its a different library in a different town and it’s not like Katie knew where to find stuff in the first place, but this is all turned around.

She actually has to ask for directions, a fact made worse by that she doesn’t know what she wants, not really. She rambles to a receptive audience of one about her drive to and from work, how the music they’re pumping over the local station wasn’t cool when it was made and definitely isn’t cool now, how her CDs have all got skips in them from repeated listening and she can’t be bothered to like, do research and find new music she likes, and maybe the library has something for that?

It turns out they do. A whole room of various styles of music, on record, cassette, CD… and two more shelves dedicated to audio books. Katie makes her selections quickly (it takes more time to register for a rental card than it does to find something she might, maybe, not hate) — a bright-colored disc from the World Music section, and a fiction read by the author, sort of a bodice-ripper if the cover is any indication.

She’s only getting older, she thinks, signing off on her library card, and trying new things is a way to keep herself young. Who knows, reading might not be as awful as she remembers. Though it probably, really is.

–

It’s not about Naomi. Not at all.

–

She catches Naomi looking at her sometimes, not in an engaging chatty way, or in a sister of the girl I used to fuck way. It’s like — but completely  _un_ like the way men look at her. Some of them. Like she’s… something be prized. Gorgeous, even.

Katie decides after the third time it happens that she doesn’t hate the idea. After enough drinks to excuse herself, she might even throw a look back, to see what it catches.

Naomi looks down. Blush rising on her cheeks.

–

“As much as I’m well entertained by our little meet-ups, I’ve got to say you’re really cutting in on my pulling time, Naomes.” Maybe she’s a tiny bit on the tipsy side, but it isn’t like she wouldn’t broach this subject completely sober. It’s a problem. It needs addressing. And maybe its the reason — the only reason — Katie isn’t running for the door every time Naomi looks at her a bit more than friendly. It’s a problem. Possibly. (Emily’s usually the one to solve her problems. Katie isn’t sure what that means.)

Naomi’s eyes glint, and she pulls a face. “Make it up to you, then?” She sets her drink down on the bar and hops off her stool.

Katie nods, shrugs. “Sure, why not.” And she doesn’t  _think_  about the outcome, about what’s happening when Naomi steps closer, brushes her fingers across Katie’s cheek, and quick as lightning, kisses her. The world closes in on them, and in this little bubble, Emily doesn’t exist. They’ve been friends for ages, maybe. This isn’t about anyone else but them, about Katie and Naomi, and Katie isn’t even panicking, because this isn’t about Emily either. Not at all.

This isn’t about anyone else, aside from maybe the bloke two tables down who’s getting a free show.

Katie gasps when Naomi pulls back after a short eternity, staring dumbfounded at the grin on the other woman’s face. “Not what I meant, Naomi,” she hisses, attempting to compose herself.

“But you can see how the misinterpretation happened, yeah?” Naomi’s still smiling, and Katie might have missed it if she wasn’t watching her so closely, but there’s a moment, just a brief one, when Naomi’s eyes flicked shut.

Katie narrows her eyes, can still feel the press of lips against hers.

–

So it turns out that Katie genuinely enjoys classical music. It doesn’t give her the headache that morning radio shows tend to, and it’s sort of soothing, sometimes. Other times, there’s these fast notes, and really sort of  _angry_  sounds, movements that get her to work that much faster. She likes classical music better than audio books (and she’s tried three now) because shocker, reading still sucks.

Emily snaps at her one morning because instead of her usual grump, Katie is humming some concerto by some dead guy, and she may or may not be tone deaf (really really is, according to her sister, who throws a pot holder in Katie’s direction).

“You can’t just dismiss culture like that, Ems,” Katie tells her, pot holder in hand.

“No one on this planet deserves to hear ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ at fucking six in the morning.”

“Oh, you love me.”

“Just not your singing voice, okay?”

It’s the first conversation they’ve had in a long time over something so truly mundane: not about Naomi or Lenora or arranging the apartment for sex, but finally, just about them. Katie doesn’t realize it until later, but when she does, she smiles. Mumbles to herself, “Your signing voice isn’t so hot either, you know.”

–

She dreams about Naomi, for sure, this time. They’re playing tag at Stonehenge, Katie’s hair long like it used to be, heels sticking in the sod. She’s outside herself, watching these two girls run, and it’s… innocent. She can feel how it is to breathe in this space, the wind tugging at her and not giving a damn who else is there,  _if_  anyone else is there, what they look like to outsiders.

(She still can’t tell the difference between herself and Emily in her dreams, but when she wakes up, Katie is sure that  _she_  was the one running. Free. Almost flying.)

–

“I’m gonna be late tonight. Some fuss over paperwork.” Katie smiles. The throwaway tone and the way Naomi just launched into the conversation, cutting off Katie’s work greeting, is a sure sign that there is serious business happening. Serious political business. She doesn’t know when she started to know things like this about Naomi, but she does now, somehow.

“I can’t believe you’re canceling on me over  _work_.”

“Nnn. Not canceling. Meet me at the club instead? Have a feeling I’ll need drinks, maybe a dance or two, after all this.”

“Sounds like a date, Ms. Campbell.” She’s at work. She’s polite and shit.

There’s a strange sort of coughing noise. Something caught in her throat. “Suppose it is.” Then Katie can hear Naomi shift back into a smile. “If I pinpoint a time, I’ll be late on that and you’ll beat me, possibly. So, just be there sometime after dark.”

“I’ll look good so you don’t have to.”

–

Katie might be half-way to blitzed when Naomi shows up. Turns out “I’m waiting for my friend” doesn’t actually deter determined drink-buyers when you’re wearing a slimming black dress and look incredibly fucking fit. (It’s not bragging if its the truth, yeah.) So, she’s had a few: a shot that tasted like attic dust, one that was just sweet enough, and a pink Long Island. He won’t say what the pink part consists of, but as long as there are no roofies included, she’s not complaining. She’s still at the bar making slightly-flirty small talk with the bloke who financed that one when Naomi rushes in, still looking stressed. Like if she doesn’t get a drink right this second she might just tear open at the seams.

“Whoa, whoa,” the guy next to her says, a grin on his lips. “Now who’s this?”

Katie gets up, drink in hand. “My friend. I told you.” She flicks a glance in Naomi’s direction, and she returns a short smile before leaning her full body weight against the bar and signaling for a bartender. “And you could be a gentleman and offer her a drink,” she suggests, turning briefly to face Naomi, tucking her hair back behind her ear. Naomi shivers, but attention is scored.

“What’s your drink, darlin’?”

–

A few more drinks in, they abandon the booth they’d managed to claim for the dance floor. It’s been awhile since Katie braved the scene with another girl, let alone one who isn’t afraid of a touch here and there, fingertips sparking with energy, hair sweaty, clinging against her neck. She’s more than aware, at first, of the people watching — catching an eye as she dances up behind Naomi, smiling.  
And then the music changes, and it doesn’t matter any more.

It must be in the way the lights flash and shift, it must be in the way that the alcohol is finally sinking into her system in a way Katie can tangibly feel. Her hand stays on Naomi’s hip, hovering at first and then settling there, gently. Naomi’s not… well, she’s never been the best dancer, Katie knows this from years of experience, but it’s different, being the one dancing with her. Every minute or so, Naomi’ll turn back, flick her eyes open and the blue will startle Katie in the dark, so suddenly bright and clear.

“I haven’t been this drunk in ages,” Katie shouts over the thick beats in the club, her lips next to Naomi’s ear, closer than she would ever be comfortable with sober. Naomi smiles at her.

“Got to get out more, then.”

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

–

“Got to pee,” Katie shouts, darts off the dance floor. She’s half-way surprised when Naomi follows her, catches the bathroom door, holding it as Katie enters. Quieter now, away from the intense noise, Katie lowers her voice, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Maybe I’ve got to go too,” Naomi replies, letting go of the door and stepping close to Katie. Her eyes linger: Katie’s ear, the short hair tucked there; Katie’s hand on the stall door; Katie’s mouth.

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” Katie disappears into the stall, feeling like she’s missed some key cue.

–

She puts it together, during the walk home from the bar, home in this case being Naomi’s place. “It’s close. I swear.”

“If my feet get cut up, I’ll cut  _you_ , yeah.”

Laughter, echoing down the street.

–

Turns out Naomi’s place isn’t far away at all, a little one-bedroom in Longlevens down the street from a bakery (a fact that Naomi tells her in light of the place lacking any form of street lamp, a fact that Naomi tells her to placate Katie when she remarks on the surroundings, claims, in a very loud voice that Naomi’s just asking to be raped, living in a place like this).

Katie is marginally more drunk than Naomi is, so it’s Naomi who insists that they “just sit” for awhile, let things settle.

And it’s nice, for a bit, just sitting. They kick their feet up on the coffee table (Katie pausing mid-lift at Naomi’s hand on her shin. “No shoes. This is from Cambodia.”) and Katie makes an honest effort to comment on the decor, but her gaze keeps coming back to Naomi. To the way her blond hair curls, just slightly, at her neck, drying slowly. To her fingers on the couch between them.

“You wanted to kiss me earlier,” Katie says, suddenly, breaking the silence.  _I wanted to kiss you earlier,_  is what she means, but she can’t say that, can’t even be expected to. “When we were dancing. In the bathroom.”

She watches Naomi swallow. Gain eye contact and then look away.

“You’re straight,” Naomi says, her voice catching, just slightly.

“You’re not denying it.”

They’re both on the drunker side of tipsy, still, so it’s a mess of hands and gasps and tongues when they lean together, like a single force, and kiss. Katie knocks over a vase or a coaster as she moves, shifting her feet under her on the couch, arching upwards for leverage, pushing against Naomi’s added height, even sitting down.

–

It hasn’t even started before it’s over.

Funny, when they were little, Katie never wanted to play with Emily’s toys. They were all Katie’s to begin with, Emily just tagged along and picked up whatever Katie dropped. People at school, teachers, counselors, would ask what Emily wanted to do, and she would look at her sister. Wait for the correct answer.

Fuck Emily, really.

–

Katie takes a shuddery breath and fumbles with the top button of Naomi’s shirt. “This might be the one thing I’m not completely banging at. I feel like you should be prepared.” There are many things Katie’s not good at, but 99% of them aren’t relevant to this moment, when she’s seriously putting herself out there and maybe setting the expectations a little low might not hurt.

She’s sober now, at least mostly, and feeling terrified with a mixture of “Fuck it.”

Naomi responds to her touch like she can’t control it, staring at the parts of Katie that she thinks shouldn’t matter. Her shoulder. The slope of her neck. She makes a small noise of encouragement when Katie finds the clasp on her bra, slides her hand underneath and cups Naomi’s smaller tit. She really didn’t know what to expect. It… wasn’t something she  _thought_  about. She’d always felt good that she was more endowed than the freak Campbell, but now, with this warmth under her palm, a stiffening nipple under her slow-moving thumb…

It’s probably the gayest thing she’s ever done.

Naomi’s lip catches between her teeth and Katie adds a little pressure, fucking fascinated by what it does, not only to Naomi’s body, but to her own.

This should really be a problem, she shouldn’t want to know what else she can do, what else she can make Naomi feel. She should be thinking about her sister, about all the horrible lezzy stuff Emily and Naomi have done together, and how gross that makes her feel. But Emily refuses to stick in Katie’s mind. It’s all feeling, somehow. Feeling _right_.

“You,” Naomi bites out, “aren’t exactly sucking at this so far.” The muscles in her stomach tighten, release. Katie squeezes, just slightly, and sighs against Naomi’s mouth in a kiss. It feels better than she ever thought it could.

They move slowly, and yet faster than Katie can keep up with. Katie’s dress shifted up around her hips and panties shimmied out of. Her mouth is on Naomi’s neck and suddenly there are fingers, the fingers she’s dreamed about — strong and insistent — against her. She’s…  _shit_ , she can’t not give in to this: the focused look on Naomi’s face, so intense and so  _here_ , and Katie collapses forward against her, just focusing on keeping her head for a moment, a minute longer, those fingers refusing to let her catch her breath.

It hasn’t even started before it’s over. Katie’s mouth freezing around the syllables in Naomi’s name, shocked and thrilled and everything at once. It comes then, before Katie’s ready, before she can really hear over the rush of blood between her ears. A soft almost-whisper, so quiet, so  _gentle_  that Katie almost misses it.

“Emily.”

–

 _Emily._

–

Katie proclaims it the worst walk of shame she’s ever taken, bare feet on cobblestones back to the bar, tracking down her car, putting the key in the ignition, her hand shaking. She isn’t crying, but she feels like it, even more so when  _Malaysian Drums_ blasts over the speakers, and she slams her fist against the steering wheel, drowning it out with the long scream of the horn.

What follows is reduced to a series of images. The road stretching out in front of her. The apartment door. The stranger at the table, her dark hair tucked up in a knot, eggs and ham on her plate. Emily rounds the corner and startles upon seeing Katie, breaks into a smile. “Bout time you made it in. I’ve been wanting to introduce you–”

“I’m going home, Emily. You don’t need me here.”

Emily stares at her, and Katie can see it out of the corner of her eye even as she retreats down the hallway. “What the fuck, Katie?”

“I don’t know, Ems. Okay?” Katie stands in the hallway, looking in on the room she’s been using as her own for the past months, the room that was never really hers. The box under the bed sticks out, just a corner, but in her mind’s eye, Katie can see the top frame, can see Naomi. Laughing.


End file.
